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Three pans of dirt that glittered so my heart was in my mouth 
As I squatted down to wash 'em on the shore." {See page 41.) 



EL DORADO 

"2 9 




Along -with 

other 

Weird 

Alaskan 
Tales 



Done into Verse 
— fcy — 

Francis LMaule 



c Ihe Jokn C.^Wmston Co. 
Philadelphia, Pa. 



76 3^ r 



tjlO 



Copyright, 1910, by 
FRANCIS I. MAULE 



©CI.A268884 



5h 

I** 






Contents 



PAGE 



El Dorado "29" q 

A Tub Tragedy 72 

Jean g ? 

A Hardware Hold-up 117 



El Dorado "29" 

The signal gong is clanging and the cage is at the 

And a crowd of night-shift workers outward 

pour, 
In their mud-stained suits of khaki, and their 

soaked and sodden shoes, 
From the levels, where they blast the precious 

ore. 

Lagging hack behind his fellows as they scatter 
forth like ants, 
To reach their sun-bleached shanties on the rise, 
Stood a sturdy Swedish miner, scraping tallow 
from his jeans, 
With the hopeless look of "has-been" in his 
eyes. 

(9) 



io EL DORADO "29" 

With halting steps the miner fain had passed me 
by unheeded, 
But a sudden sort of premonition came, 
And with instant recognition, as it were by in- 
tuition, 
He paused, I turned, our eyes met, and I called 
him by his name. 



" Are you he, and say they truly was it you who 
wove the spell, 
That spread a golden frenzy o'er the land ? 
And was yours the fatal winning that drove 
thousands into sinning, 
And with pan, and pick, and shovel, pointed 
multitudes to hell ? 



"From his pulpit drave the preacher, snatched his 
ferule from the teacher, 
Into exile sent the worker of the forge, the 
plow and loom, 
Gathered up from all creation men of every 
tongue and nation, 
Sent alike the vile and noble to the Klondike, 
and to doom. 



EL DORADO "29" 11 

"Shackle-free set acquisition, dragged the feeble 
to perdition, 
ipped the ever slender leash that curbs desire, 
Did your questing pick's upturning set those bale- 
ful longings burning, 
That with greed for gold unholy, fed an all-con- 
suming fire ? 

"To the winds gave prudence, reason, and the salt 
that virtues season 
Had forever lost its savor, and was trampled 
in the dust, 
'Neath the feet of maddened masses, as they 
throng the trails and passes, 
Driven onward in a frenzy, by the lashings of 
their lust." 

When I paused he turned upon me, eyes of such 
supernal sadness, 
That their pupils seemed engraven with the 
image of despair. 
And he said in gentle accents, with a pleasant 
Norse inflection, 
I'll tell you all about it, if you have the time 
to spare. 



12 EL DORADO "29" 

A lot of us old "Sour-Doughs," eight or nine or 
mebby ten, 
Had been up the Klondike north of "sixty- 
four" 




"A lot of us old 'Sour-Doughs' " 

And we'd done a heap of tramping, washed a 
mountain range or two 
To pan out the barest living — nothing more. 



It was really tantalizing the way things kept 
a-sizing, 
And often it was "All pull out and quit." 



EL DORADO "29" 13 

Then some chap would strike a nugget or a pan 
of "extra color/' 
And again all hands would hustle for a bit. 

I myself had hung right to it and I knew just 
how to do it, 
For there never was a "Shaker" in that bunch 
That could whirl a pan of gravel, and from its grit 
unravel, 
More color than the Swede my pards called 
"Hunch." 

Why "Hunch?" Oh! that is easy; I'd a fall 
when quite a boy 
And it makes me stoop and walk a leetle lame. 
My schoolmates tacked it to me, and wherever I 
have been, 
I am follered like my shadow by that name. 

c near as I remember it was some time in Novem- 




ber 
When 'twas me for Dawson town and all the 

rest, 
With a poke of dust tucked under, what for sure 

was (and no wonder), 
A most uncommon greasy deer-hide vest. 



14 



EL DORADO "29' 




" 'Twas me for Dawson town" 

Then I hit it up for Skagway while my poke 
could stand alone 
By reason of eight hundred good, still left. 
And I figured on a racket just so long as that 
same packet 
Could hold on — to, — well! the smallest bit of 
heft. 



EL DORADO "29" 15 

Met some boys and things got going, kept on 
going — going faster,. 
Till I seemed to hear the whole town in a roar. 
Then a lapse I could not measure, one I did not 
highly treasure, 
When awaking to the freedom of a dirty bar- 
room floor. 

'Round my neck I felt the drawing of a well 
remembered thong, 
But from it hung the emptiest of pokes, 
While my deer-skin jacket pocket was just 
bulging with a paper, 
With its record of my costliest of jokes. 

That paper, how I studied it a dozen times or 
more, 
Its signature most certainly was mine, 
Was a deed that made me owner of a worthless 
Klondike claim — 
"El Dorado," and its number, "Twenty-nine." 

In vain I sought the shysters who had queered 
me in the deal. 
To a man they swore the offer came from me, 



6 EL DORADO "29" 

Was I goin' to do the baby-act, lay down on 
them and squeal? 
Said I'd give eight hundred for the property, 
in fee. 




There I was right up agin it, with just two 
things left to do, 
For those skinners hadn't left me with a cent, 
Stay and slave or starve in Skagway, hit it up 
for " twenty-nine, ' ' 
was rotten foolish going, but I went ! 



1 



■( 



Yes, I sure was up agin it, but I soon caught 
up my nerve, 
For the friends I had in "Skag" they couldn't 
y steal. 
There was lots of boys as knew me square 
and the best of all the bunch 
Was a grey old " Forty-niner" — Jim McNeal. 

Jim had been there from the bottom to the 
tip most of the top. 
He'd been bitten by the Californy craze, 
He'd struck it rich and often, lost it all a 
dozen times, 
But you couldn't jolt Jim's faith in better days. 



EL DORADO "29" 



*7 



Jim ran a hardware-tavern, peddled "red-eye," 
pans and picks, 
And on the side sold shovels, gin and beer. 
He was always very friendly, but his real and 
truly size 
I never knowed till I was to the queer. 




' Twas a shm and scattered bunch of houses then 



I was feelin' mighty wretched when I stepped 

into his j'int, 
On the sign 'twas called "The Little Yukon 

Shack," 
And I found Jim mighty busy, but I caught his 

friendly nod and 
"I want to see you, special, Hunch, come back." 



18 EL DORADO "29" 

Then I wandered (legs and mind too) up and 
down the streets of. "Skag," 
'Twas a slim and scattered bunch of houses 
then. 
And I strolled down to the landin' where the 
beach was choked with stuff 
And I learn't some brand-new cussin' from 
the men. 



When I thought his rush was over I hiked back 
up to Jim's. 
I remember he was chalkin' on a slate. 
He says, "Set down a minute; take that cheer 
behind the stove, Hunch, 
I reckon we'll be talkin' purty late. 

5 

Them boys that sold you 'twenty-nine' was 

in here quite a spell. 
They was full of rum and brimmin' full of jokes ; 
Why I never heerd such yellln' while the 

drunkest one was tellin' 
How they'd dumped old El Dorado for your 

fortune in their pokes. 




EL DORADO "29" 19 

"They said you was clean-busted, for they'd 
taken every cent, 
But you'd some day be a bloomin' millionaire, 
When you'd done some little travel, washed 
a few square miles of gravel 
And hed found the fist-big nuggets that 
was there." 

Then McNeal pulled down the curtain, seen the 
door was locked for certain 
And blew out a pair of extry stinkin' lamps; 
Then he hitched his chair up near me and he 
said — how it did cheer me — 
"Hunch, I'll stake you to get even with them 
scamps. 

"Of course, I don't know nothing 'bout this 'El 
Dorady' claim, 
But I'd bet my bottom dollar, and some more, 
That the man who will stick to it, will for certain 
never rue it, 
If he hits the Yukon north of 'sixty-four.' 

"Yes, Hunch, I'm for the gamble and I'll rig 
you for the ramble 



20 EL DORADO "29" 

With any sort of grub-stake that you like, 
For you've got the sand to travel and the Yukon's 
got the gravel 
That's just waitin' for the down-all-others 
strike." 



In the dark we talked it over, how I'd tackle 
"Twenty-nine," 
And as both of us was "Sour-doughs, " Jim and 
me, 
We figured up an outfit, grub and tools and mule 
and cash, 
And we didn't have no trouble to agree. 



; wa 



This was on a Friday evening back in August, 

And on Monday, just a leetle after dawn, 
"Uncle Peter" wore my duffle, grub and pick, 
and pan and shovel, 
And I petered out of Skagway, and was 






gone. 



Oh yes! Why "Uncle Peter" — worth a mint was 
that same creetur— 



EL DORADO "29" 21 

Was a mule that cost McNeal a thousand 
bits, 
He was tough, (I'd liked him bigger,) he was 
jest my age I figger, 
And was subject to some quite amusin' fits. 

Him and me was always friendly, he was gentle 
as a lamb, 
And I never see his match on any trail, 
But he hated dogs and Injuns, and to folks 
he didn't like 
He was apt to signal danger with his tail. 

Them as knowed him mostly always, when I led 

him out to cinch, 

And was heavin' hard to gather up the slack, 

Fought shy of Pete's back-bildin's, for he 

had a sudden way 

That discouraged folks from ever comin' back. 

Here was "Hunch" once more a trailin' with his 
nose a-pointin' north 
With sure four, most like five hundred miles 
to do. 



22 EL DORADO "29" 

Twas a three or four months' gamble, full of 
hustle, hump and scramble 
Ere the stakes of El Dorado came in view. 



Well, I took Pete by the bridle and we headed for 
the pass, 
And again I hear that well-remembered click 
When the pans and shovels rattle, from the 

jolting of the cattle, 
And the axe Hits up the chorus with the pick. 



For weeks 'twas easy goin', summer time, three 
months from snowin', 
Grub was fresh and plenty, trails was extry 
good, 
And how Pete and me did hustle, up past Ben- 
nett (soon to bustle), 
We was pushin' for the Klondike to make 
good. 



How well I can remember that pepper-hot Sep- 
tember 
As we swung around Lake Bennett by the pass. 



EL DORADO "29" 23 

Yukon skies were never bluer, you could tell 
each peak for sure. 
Most could count the spruces on 'em in those 
thirty miles of glass. 

Day by day we hung right to it — both of us 
knew how to do it, 
Prospectin' surely suited him and me, 
So we plodded on together, we was birds of the 
same feather 
And as friendly as a man and mule could be. 

Clear nights, I'd water Peter, hobble him and 
turn him loose, 
Eat my supper, then roll up beside a log. 
And that mule filled up with grasses, good and 
plenty in the passes, 
Would lay down close up agin me like a dog. 

Stormy nights I'd cut down cedars with extra 
bushy tops 
And lean them up agin a shelving bank, 
Build a fire and crawl in under, and I'd sleep 
as dry as bone 
Though the rain came down to beat a busted tank. 



24 EL DORADO "29" 

Safe we ran the White Horse Rapids — how they 
thundered through the gorge, 
They was certain death for any but the cool, 
And right here it might be stated, I was some- 
what over-freighted 
With nine hundred-weight of agitated mule. 

I whip-sawed out the lumber, built an extry big 
battoe, 
For I had a heap of duffle, thanks to Jim. 
Built her wide so's not to teeter, when I shipped 
poor Uncle Peter, 
For I knowed that White Horse run would 
worry him. 

When I shoved her in the water, she didn't leak 
a drop, 
So I soon was busy packin' of my stuff, 
But to figure out a passage for a mule too live 
for "sassage," 
Ain't so altogether easy, sure enough. 

I led him to the water, at the boat he sorta 
glanced, 
Then he gev his starboard ear a gentle wave,. 



EL DORADO "29" 



25 



And his eye-whites turned to yeller, same as 
when he'd reached some feller 
With a heel-in' power to stake him for his 
grave. 







" I whip-sawed out the lumber" 

I had a heap of trouble bendin' Uncle Peter double, 
How I wisht he'd had an extry set of knees, 

But two half-breeds helped me throw him, 
lash his legs and safely stow him, 
Then he lay among the duffle at his ease. 



26 EL DORADO "29" 

I hired them men to help me, both was good with 
pole or paddle, 
While I stood aft a-steerin' with an oar, 
So we drifted through an eddy, straightened out, 
got good and ready; 
Lord-a mercy! how that canon sure did roar. 



In less than half a minnit we was to the gorge, 
then in it, 
In its awful roar, its gurgle, whirl and foam. 
Gee! them Injuns' eyes was rollin', but they did 
some mighty polin' ; 
Mebby thinkin' of two yaller gals at home ? 



Safe we rode that raging torrent, with its half- 
sunk jagged rocks, 
That later wrecked Cheechakos* by the score. 
Slid across the wide, quick water, and it didn't 
seem like no time 
Till we'd built a fire to dry ourselves ashore. 



Paid them half-breeds, well they'd earned it, in 
the boat they'd sure been white, 

♦Newcomer, Tenderfoot, in Siwash Indian lingo. 



EL DORADO "29 




"Across the wide, quick water' 



Loosed the mule and set my tent up, did some 

washin' and some mendin' 
And we stopped just where we landed for the 

night. 



Next morning bright and early — 'bout the tent? 
Why yes, I had one. 
Two little sheets of canvas, nothing more; 
They was buttoned up together and they'd shed 
a heap of weather, 
Father slept in it all through the Civil War. 



28 EL DORADO "29" 

For grub? well, sour-dough biskits, mostly always 
beans and bacon, 
But I often used to piece •them victuals out 
When twenty minnits' fishin' would make the 
nice addition 
Of a grayling, or a mess of speckled trout. 

^B 
Then I had an old-style Navy, 'twas a Colt, 

size 44, 

It for sure was sorta heavy, but it shot. 

It would drop a doe at eighty, snip a grouse's 

head at twenty — 



Well it brought all sorts of varmints to the pot. 

Once, high up on Saw Mountain, by the edge 
of a ravine, 
Where some new-fell snow had freshened up the 
old, 
I came sudden on a Big-horn standin' out agin 
the sky 
When the settin' sun had turned his head to gold. 

He stood like he was frozen there agin a sea of 
blue, 



EL DORADO "29" 29 

Never dreamin' that an enemy was near. 
While I crept up mighty gentle, why I sorta held 
my breath, 
For them sheep is always skeeryer than deer. 




"By the edge of a ravine" 

When I stopped behind a boulder with no footing 
further on, 
We was all of twenty rods or more apart. 
But I rested that old "Navy" on the edge of the 
big stone, 
And I put its half-ounce bullet through his 
heart. 



3 o EL DORADO "29" 

He fell into the canon, bounding down from 
ledge to ledge, 
Till he landed in a tree-top far below. 
We was mighty glad to get him and the bunch 
of us soon et him, 
For there's no wild meat like Big-horn, don't 
you know. 

I remember one December, in my blankets, sound 
asleep, 
The fire was low, the night as black as tar, 
When I heerd a fearful screamin', to my just 
up-wakened seemin' 
It sounded 'bout ten feet off — if so far. 

I sot up mighty sudden, whipped that Navy 
from its sheath, 
For I see two green eyes lookin' into mine. 
Just across the smould'ring ashes, there he stood 
with tail a-wavin' 
And I heerd the sneakin' critter sorta whine 

'Twas a panther — some says "lion," — he's a mean 
and sneakin' beast, 



EL DORADO "29" 31 

What'll run away from anyone on sight, 
But he sure does awful screechin', apt to 

mighty skeer Cheechakos 
When he starts them caterwaulings in the 

night. 



It mought have been a second, but for sure 
it wasn't more, 
Till I drawed the little bead between his eyes. 
Then old 44 just thundered, then a yell — "Hunch" 
hadn't blundered, 
For he tanned a pelt of more than common 
size. 



I hev shot with that ree-volver, I guess every- 
thing there is, 

From a chipmunk to a silver-tip, or moose, 
But I never shot a human, only p'nted it at one, 

And for killin' folks, it's never had no use. 



Where was I? Well, next morning Pete and me 
hit up the trail, 
And I noticed when a-makin' up the pack, 



32 EL DORADO "29" 

That the mule had some hard feelin's, and to 
judge him by his squealin's, 
He was soured on that boat-ride, on his back. 



Day by day, due north by compass, rain, or 
shine, or hot or cold, 
The pair of us stuck steady to the trail, 
Makin' time on all good goin', waded streams 
or crossed them swimmin', 
Me assisted by a handy yaller-tail. 



As the nights kept growin' colder and the frost 
kept bitin' bolder, 
I'd crawl into my sleepin'-bag and lie, 
And watch those lights a-gleamin' rose and green 
and purple streamin,' 
And great silver flashings mount the northern 
sky. 



I could never tell the story of those midnight 
streams of glory, 
How they'd flash and tremble, flush, and fade 
away, 



EL DORADO "29" 33 

The Aurora Borealis lit them black woods like a 
palace — 
Why them nights was just a bridge from day 
to day. 

Now we'd crawl up some wild canon, mebby 
choked with a moraine, 
Where you do but little goin' in a day, 
With its glacier-stream a-rumble as its milky 
waters tumble 
Those ghastly, skull-like boulders in its spray. 

Or we'd mebby stray unthinkin' till we'd find 

ourselves a-sinkin' 

In a "muskeg" — that's a nasty, slimy bog, 

Often hid by soft green mosses, they's just h — 11 

for mules and hosses, 

Why they wouldn't suit a self-respectin' hog! 

We'd come on little valleys, green, but shaped 

just like coulees, 

Where the berries fairly hung in clusters blue, 

There we'd often hear a snortin', catch a glimpse 

of them cavortin' 

As a silver-tip with cubs rushed out of view. 




l 'In the woods we walked on velvet " 



EL DORADO "29" 35 

In the summer, now long over, all the streams of 
any size, 
Leastwise them that poured their waters in the 
sea, 
Was just choked with runnin' salmon, and them 
leapin' silver Sock-eyes, 
And the Cohoes too, was wonderful to see. 

Quite often on the shoulder of some high uplifted 
peak, 
Where you'd think there wasn't footing for 
a mouse, 
You could see on that bare mountain (white as 
snow, so easy countin') 
A dozen goats a-climbin' up for browse. 

I said my old ree-volver had killed everything 
there was 
From little striped gophers up to stags, 
But I never could get near them, but would 
always somehow skeer them. 
No! I never shot a white goat on the crags. 

Pretty country? Why yes! — rather, 

It was mostly always good and bad by turns, 



36 EL DORADO "29" 

In the woods we walked on velvet, ankle deep in 
lovely mosses, 
And I never see so many pretty ferns. 



And often in the open, snow-capped peaks were 
all around us, 
In front, behind, and on our right and left, 
And we saw no end of glaciers gleaming in their 
rock-bound valleys 
With their grimy edges honeycombed and 
cleft. 



It was then, as I remember, the last part of 
November, 
And it seemed a year since we was leavin' 
"Skag," 
Some days 'twas all plain sailin', but some- 
times things were ailin', 
And to save our lives we couldn't help but lag. 



There was lots and lots of places, where of trails 
there wa'n't no traces, 
And for weeks we never see a spotted line, 



EL DORADO "29" 



37 




"And we saw no end of glaciers" 

Of course, I had my compass, but them foggy 
days would stump us 
And this time of year there's more of them 
than fine. 



38 EL DORADO "29" 

Now it isn't easy goin' where there's not a mark 
a-showin', 
That a human's foot was ever 'long that way, 
So you couldn't greatly wonder that I sometimes 
made a blunder 
And got my bearings tangled for a day. 

'Twas a drear November evening, it had rained 
since early dawn, 
And the choking fog hung 'round us like a pall. 
We'd been tramping hard since daylight, for I 
knowed we must be near it, 
If them scamps had ever had the claim at all. 

We had come up an "arroyo" — that's Spanish 
for a gulch — 
With its smallish stream of water running fast, 
On its bank ten yards above us, mostly hid by 
little bushes, 
I could see a row of claimin' stakes at last ! ! 

Pete and me dumb up the clay bank; we was 
hungry, wet and cold, 
And I hitched him by his halter to a pine. 



EL DORADO "29" 39 

As I stood and looked around me, I most wish't 
someone had drowned me, 
That fust night, on "ELDorado Twenty-nine/' 

Sot the tent up, wet and soggy, had a bad time 
with my fire, 
Matches damp, and birch-bark kindlin' mighty 
scurce. 
Fried a little bit of bacon, drew some tea, then 
steamin' blankets. 
No! I never went to sleep a-feelin' worse! 

Next day the sun ris brightly, but it didn't com- 
fort me, 
I was layin' there most counterfittin' death — 
When I heer'd a well known snortin', felt the 
ground shake from cavortin', 
Follered by a blast of extry-hot mule breath! 

I read my deed twict over, walkin' slow around 
my claim, 
And compared it extry-careful with my stakes; 
For mining men gets peevish when adjoinin' 
claims seem thievish, 
And some undertaker settles up with fakes. 




When you re up above eight thousand and are seeiri things like 
this 

There's something 'bout that highness mighty odd, 
For the toughest quits his swearing, and the better sort of chap 

Somehow seems to feel uncommon close to God 



EL DORADO "29" 41 

Then I got out pick and shovel, spread my wash- 
pans in a row, 
Cleared the bushes from a strip along the creek, 
And I couldn't help but wonder, could them 
skunks hev made a. blunder? 
Was I goin' to find what I had come to seek? 

Then I wet my hands (as usual), gripped its han- 
dle, swung my pick, 
And tore out about a half-a peck of clay. 
Squatted down and looked it over, then I broke 
into a yell, 
For I see some yaller traces which was pay! 

Bet your life things soon got rapid, and I dug out 
of that hole, 
In about a half-grown "jiffy," — 't wasn't 



'M 



more — 
Three pans of dirt that glittered so, my heart was 
in my mouth 
As I squatted down to wash 'em on the shore. 

How I whirled them pans of gravel, worked the 
pebbles off, and trash, 



42 EL DORADO "29" 

Till a spoon could hold the fine-stuff what was 

left, 
And when I washed up final, poured the flakes 

upon my scale, 
There was jest about twelve-fifty — honest heft. 

I was all done bein' wretched, feelin' cold, or wet, 
or tired, 
For I'd struck it rich and "Hunch" was there 
to stay. 
So I ate my grub and started in to build a first- 
class shack, 
For a Yukon winter wasn't far away. 

Next day I dug the corner, right ag'in' the 
joining claim, 
And I took out what a hundred pans would hold, 
And underneath a patch of moss a nugget came 
in sight, 
Twas an eighty-dollar chunk of solid gold ! 

I'd pan out till my arms ached, then I'd build the 
shack to rest, 
I was up by dawn and toiled away till night; 



EL DORADO "29" 43 

And when that heap of pay-dirt was but tail- 
ings in the creek, 
I had washed out eighteen hundred, and a mite. 

Day by day I hung right to it, and I never see'd 

the like. 

Yes, I'd struck an "El Dorado" sure enough. 

Why it didn't make no matter whereabouts I 

my pick, 

>re was jest a "Savings Bank" of 

Time flew, by late December, for the weather 




sure 
'd s 



I'd salted down a mighty lot of stuff. 
How I longed to meet them fellers that had 
took my poke of "eight," 
And had give me next to nothing, — sure enough ! 

■ 
In a hole under my blankets, the beef -tins stood 
in rows, 
And they every one was solid packed with dust. 
And a pail that once had lard in, 'twas a 25 I 
think, 
Had to go without a lid, for it was bust. 



44 EL DORADO "29" 

I had tent-cloth bags of nuggets, some was big 

as half my hand, 

With deer-skin pokes, like rice, or grains of corn, 

And I'd play with these at midnight, like I used 

to do with blocks, 

In that dear old Malmo town, where I was born. 

I had names for every nugget, — leastwise them 
\\of any size, 
And could tell you where they every one was 
found. 
There was one, a sort of egg-shaped, flattened like 
upon its side, 
That a chap I met was done with— he was 
drowned ! 

At night I'd make me torches, out of birch-bark 
tightly rolled, 
And I'd pour out on a clean coyote-skin, 
Such piles of flakes and nuggets, and such heaps 
of yellow gold, 
As was Dawson's price for any sort of sin. 

When I'd turn me in my blankets, I'd never mind 
the humping 



EL DORADO "29" 45 

Of those cans that sometimes riz above the floor, 
For no fowl e'er grew a feather — search this wide 

world altogether — 
As downy as those beef-tins, with the hope 

of filling more. 

When my fire no longer flickered on the sod roof 

overhead 

And the nipping cold clung to me like a shroud, 

I'd lie and build me castles in the sunniest of 

Spains, 

jid I'd plan to be the proudest of the proud. 

By the time the ground was frozen, and the first 
deep snows had came, — 
Oh! about poor Uncle Peter, I forgot, 
He fell between two boulders, and he broke his 
nigh hind leg — 
Well I've met whole heaps of men I'd sooner 
shot. 

Before the winter set in fair — and you don't mix 
up with spring 
What the Yukon country usually hands out — 



4 6 



EL DORADO "29" 



I had fifty-seven thousand six hundred twenty 
odd, 
When I cinched my snow-shoe lacings and 
lit out. 




' Hunch ' was hoofin up a street 



First I cached my tools and duffle away back 
in the woods, 
And I hid my tins of yaller safe and sound, 



EL DORADO "29" 47 

Then I hit it up for Dawson for a little fun and 
rest, 
Till the time for picks and shovels next kem 
'round. 



I'd a coolish tramp to Dawson, 'twas a bunch of 
miles for sure, 
But I always had been handy with my feet, 
And I kept them frames a-slidin' pretty lively 
on the crust, 
So one mornin' "Hunch" was hoofin' up a street. 

I stopped outside the city, and I cut a good ash- 
club, 
For I knowed about a winter mining town, 
Where the "huskies" roam in bunches and the 
Malamutes* is fierce, 
'Deed I've knowed them dogs to pull a stranger 
down. 

First I hunted up the feller owning next to 
"Twenty-Nine," 
And I quite forgot to say I'd struck it rich, 

* A splendid sled dog, a cross between a timber- 
wolf and a huskie. 



48 



EL DORADO ' 29" 




"Where the 'huskies ' roam in bunches" 

When I spoke to him of sellin', he could hardly 
keep from yellin', 
He was busted clean, and headin' for the ditch. 



Him and me did no disputin', for the chap felt 
high falutin' 
When I weighed him out two hundred down, 
in dust, 
'Twas like stealin' baby's candy, and that money 
came in handy — 
Dawson City wasn't healthy for the bust. 



EL DORADO "29" 



49 



Dawson seemed tremenjous lively to a chap just 
off the creeks, 
Where for months a mule had been his only 
friend, 
'Twas for sure a cheerful city, when the boys 
drapped in to winter, 
Totin' pokes of gold they fairly itched to spend. 

'Twas a mighty curious mix-up town of houses, 
tents, and shacks, 
There was every kind of roost I ever see, 
Five the-aters, hotels plenty, but of "jints" 
where there was "games" 
I disremember all but twenty-three. 




"And the Malamutes is fierce ' 



50 EL DORADO "29" 

"Thirst parlors" mebby fifty, "Denver Jim's,"" 
■ and "Santa Fe," 
The "Yukon Trail," the "Lucky Strike,"— 
well, say! 
If I rounded up that outfit, and corralled the 
dance-halls too, 
It for sure would take me easy half-a-day. 

I hung out at the " Klondike," kept by "Arizony 
Ike." 
Well, and didn't Isaac's palace burn up dough? 
Him and me had ranched together, seen all kinds 
of men and weather, 
Drivin' Texas steers to market, from below. 




ed my duffle at the "Klondike," and was 
hiif on the bar, 
Thinkin' twenty bits was high for bottled beer, 
When I heered the old pianner bein' played in 
such a manner 
That it sounded most like music to the ear. 

Now a Dawson-shack pianner was played on in 
a manner 
(Most generally, of course, in "miner keys") 



EL DORADO "29" 




"When the boys dropped in to winter 



Fit to bust its box around it, choke all melody 
or drown it, 
'Twas a stop-your-sleepin' nuisance, if you 
please. 



I tip-toed to the hall-way, looked across that 
dirty lane, 
And I ketched a whiff, I guess it was Cologne; 



$2 EL DORADO "29" 

On the stool of that pianner, with a purty air 
and manner, 
Sat the gal I some time later longed to own. 

They called her "Kansas Lizzie/' mostly cut it 
down to "Liz," 
But why "Kansas" I could never understand, 
For her father was a Greaser, and her mother 
was a squaw — 
An Apache from the lower Rio Grande. 

About that " Kansas label," Lizzie never said a 
word, 
No! she never gave a chirp, or made a sign, 
On that point she took no chances, but she 
charged ten plunks for dances, 
And I pestered her incessant to be mine. 

Liz was tall and rather slimmish, with a skin as 
white as snow, 
And had eyes the brightest ever, I believe. 
Her cheeks was like a rose, for good reasons I 
suppose, 
For I've had that same complexion on my 
sleeve. 



EL DORADO "29" 53 

She was thirty-five year old, and her nigh big 
tooth was gold, 
When she smiled I thought it livened up her 
looks 
Liz was there to gather plunks, but she never 
danced with drunks, 
Lizzie never took no stock in any crooks. 



Lizzie old? Well, mebby so. But the youngest 
in the show, 
Yes, the youngest pay-girl dancer in the hall — 
You mought find it some surprisin', think of 
sixty-two! (and risin') — 
That was Josephine, whose dancin' beat 'em 
all. 



Yes, she sure was fascinatin', and it's sober fact 
I'm statin', 
That in Lizzie's hands poor "Hunch's" heart 
was clay, 
When she wore pink dancin' clothes, and behind 
her ear a rose, 
Like them Senoritas down to Santa Fe. 



54 



EL DORADO "29 



I blew in nine silk dresses, and as for dancin' 
shoes 
Of the finest kid, at twenty plunks the pair, 
She had 'em pink and blue and gold, with the 
best silk hose to match; 
Lizzie led that Dawson bunch in things to 
wear. 




" / was goin after shiners 



EL DORADO "29" 55 

Her seal-skin coat (two thousand) by an inch just 
missed the floor, 
She'd a watch (another thousand), 'twas a 
\ptleaut," 

"ore a chain of nuggets that went three 
mes 'round her neck, 
With a ten-of-diamonds pin to foller suit. 

Yes, I sure was lovin' "Kansas," but she didn't 
care for me. 
r as there anything on earth I wouldn't do 
To win a smile from Lizzie? Why it almost made 
me dizzy 
When that solid-gold left upper came in view. 



y 



By spring I'd growed down-hearted, was the very 
first that started 
For the land of gold that's north of Sixty-four. 
With me went a dozen miners, I was goin' after 
shiners 
On a scale a great sight bigger than before. 



With that help we built good sluices, riffle- 
boxes — all that went 



56 EL DORADO "29" 

For placer mining as it should be done, 
And the way dirt soon was movin' had for me 
some little soothin', 
And I tried to think of only number one. 



""And how them brand-new tents for sure did shine " 

I worked my land all over, down to hard-pan 

every inch, 

And it meant just thirty months to wring it dry, 

And I got for my ten hundred, which is what 

them claims had cost, 

Just a million dollars, — twenty thousand shy.. 



EL DORADO "29" 57 

When I lit out from Dawson, in that spring 
of "-98," 
Things had surely changed a heap at "Twenty- 
Nine," 
For a swarm of men had found me, stakes was 
thick for miles around me, 
And how them brand-new tents for sure did 
shine. 



And this is how they found me: — I was pan- 
ning out one day, 
I'd been working then but thirty days or so, 
And I needn't hardly mention that the pan held 
my attention, 
When a voice close up behind me grunted — 
"ho!" 



Quick I turned, and there was standing, between 
me and the landing, 
Two Siwash squaws, one old, the other young, 
And they both looked faint and weary and the 
younger one some skeery, — 
In its cradle on her back, a papoose hung. 



5» 



EL DORADO "29" 




"Two Siwash squaws, one old" 



The older squaw was toting, I couldn't well help 
noting, 
The burden in a tump-strap on her head — 



EL DORADO "29" 59 

They'd been to their cache of salmon, (that's 
their winter cure for famine) — 
And her load was close to ninety pounds, she 
said. 




While them squaws was drinkin' tea, it sorta 
come to me, 
As the oldest one sat smoking by the fire, 
That some sock-eye salmon steak would be a 

After six months' steady, beans and bacon tire. 




With a little Siwash patter and considerable of 
signs, 
At last I got them wimmen folks to see 
That I'd like to buy a share of what salmon 
flakes theVd spare, 

iat dirty pack I hung up on a tree. 




Then I turned my blankets up, and I reached for 
a tin-cup, 

(I seen they both was noticin' my stuff), 
And I gev them in a rag, quite a decent little jag 

Of the yaller dust, that's money sure enough. 



60 EL DORADO "29" 

I had giv the kid some tea, made as sweet as 
sweet could be, 
And the little chap was makin' signs for more, 
When I picked the cradle up, and I kissed that 
Injun pup 
Stickin' in a scabbard, like my "44." 

Then the old squaw took her pack, now it didn't 
drag her back 
When she set the greasy tump-strap on her 
brow, 
And the younger (almost pretty) slung her 
papoose by its thong, 
Then they hit the trail, looked back, and 
grunted "how!" 

It was mebby six weeks after, when I waked up 
heerin' laughter, 
And somebody whistlin' at a dance-hall air; 
Had my boots on in a second, clum a tree, and 
then I reckoned 
There was men and tools and duffle everywhere. 

Gangs was up the stream on both sides, 

Drivin' stakes in every bloomin' inch of shore. 



EL DORADO "29" 61 

Twas the fust of Klondike travel, they was 
frantic to see gravel, — 
Well, I cal-culate I needn't say no more. 

"Cheechako, — big gold can, way up creek in 
Yukon Ian'" 
Was the spark that quickly bursted into 
flame, 
It was what them Injuns told 'bout them salmon- 
flakes they'd sold, 
And the heap of dust I showed to pay for same. 

When I'd worked them claims both over — 
And you bet I went to bed-rock everywhere — 

I gathered up my treasure, off to Dawson hiked 
for pleasure 
As the papers said, almost a millionaire. 

Lizzie still was there and dancing, and she seemed 
to me entrancing; 
She'd a sort of partnership in Sante Fe; 
I met her at a party, and she shook my hand 
quite hearty, 
And I noticed in her hair a leetle gray. 



62 EL DORADO "29" 

How'd I feel? Why worse than ever, for I could 
forget her never, 
And there didn't seem to be so much in life. 
And I urged her good and plenty, begged her 
fifteen times or twenty, 
To go down to Californy as my wife. 



"Cut it out," — Come, Liz, I need you, 

Need you dreadful for my job of millionaire. 

Then she'd laugh with head a-tossin', say she 
couldn't stand no bossin', 
And to tell the truth, for me she didn't care. 



One Tuesday night a bunch of us was up to 
Santa Fe, 
Both men and girls together, eight or nine, 
Liz was settin' with Big Simpson on the stoop 
outside the hall, 
When she over-heer'd some foolish talk of mine. 



I was talkin' about Lizzie to a most particler 
friend, 
And was tellin' him my heart was nearly broke, 



EL DORADO "29" 63 

I said "I'd give her weight in gold, if she would 
marry me," 
And for sure I didn't mean it for a joke. 



Then I heer'd a silk dress rustle, and I caught a 
glimpse of blue, 
While a woman's voice, soft, whispered in my 



"I heer'd what you was sayin', Hunch, about 
my weight in gold, 
And I'll take you at that figger now and here!" 



For a minnit I was dazed like, for I couldn't 
scarce believe 
That the Belle of Dawson, — how my brain did 
reel, — 
But I pulled myself together, and I said, "Well, 
Lizzie dear, 
I'll come up on Friday night and close the deal." 



It seemed like that next Friday night was never 
goin' to come, 
But it did, and then 'twas me for Santa Fe, 



64 EL DORADO "29" 

And I brought up in a buggy, pokes of dust and 
nuggets too, 
To the heft I figgered Lizzie ought to weigh. 

Right adjoinin' to the dance-hall was a big out- 
fitting store, 
Where us miners bought most every kind of 
stuff, 
Its proprietor, O'Connor, had a swingin' pair of 
scales, 
Just the thing to weigh a bride on, sure enough. 

'Bout eight o'clock came Lizzie with a dozen of 
her friends, 
In her heaviest boots, big cloak and blanket- 
shawl. 
But I said, "Not enny, Lizzie, them scales will 
not get busy 
Till you're dressed like you was dancin' in 
the hall." 

Then all hands burst out a-laughing, and I got 
some merry chaffing, 
While Lizzie went to shed that extra rig. 



EL DORADO "29" 65 

Then they bunched up close together, just like 
sheep in winter weather, 
And they bet on Lizzie's heft, some betting big. 

She stepped in on the swingin' board, held steady 
by the chains, 
And her head riz somewhat higher than the 
bar, 
While I staked my pile agin' her, and as sure as 
I'm a sinner, 
As to heft, she beat my cal-cu-la-tions far. 

I piled up on my scale-end, bags of nuggets pokes 
of dust, 
ind at thirty thousand slackened up to see 
Why "Bridal Stock" wa'nt risin', it for sure was 
some surprisin', 
So of thousand pokes on went another three. 

Then the betting ring came closer and some of 
the jocoser 
Kept a pokin' fun, for which I didn't care. 
I was piling gold on steady, had coughed thirty- 
nine of ready, 
When I see my Lizzie swingin' in the air. 



66 



EL DORADO "29" 




"Sure would make an Injun totem stop and look' 



In the bunch of friends around us, who with 
cheers had well nigh drowned us, 
Was the Reverend Theophilus McShay. 
"Mac" said he was a D. D., to a "high degree" 
was "C. D.," 
Now was washing plates for keep, and ten a day. 



EL DORADO "29" 67 

We was married in the parlor close adjoinin' to 
the bar. 
Style? Episcopal, O. K., with ring and book. 
Then I throwed the house wide open, and the 
bill I got next day 
Sure would make an Injun-totem stop and 
look. 



My best man was Johnnie Peyton, late of Gal- 
veston in Tex, 
And he was about the best I ever see. 
Lizzie's bridesmaid, Mam-zell Julie, once a pray- 
mi-air ballay — 
Used to kick off hats for fun, in gay Paree. 



Next day 'twas us for Frisco. Liz was mad enough 
to cry 
When they throwed a peck of meal upon her 
gown, 
But she managed to keep quiet in that ever- 
lastin' riot, 
When I whispered, "rice is twenty bits a 
pound!" 



68 EL DORADO "29" 

On our way to San Francisco we stopped a day 

at "Skag," 

And I don't think Jim was sorry that we came, 

For I cut the proper caper, handed him a 

strip of paper 

With five figures to the westward of my name. 

When we got down to Frisco, where I hadn't 
been for years, 
I hunted up a lawyer right away, 
And on Mrs. Lizzie settled three hundred thou- 
sand down, 
As a mackintosh against a rainy day. 



Next I bought a fine house furnished, in the 
swellest part of town, 
With a splendid view across the shining bay, 
Gave a grand house-warming party, asking every- 
one we knew, 
Twas the finest racket ever, so they say. 

Everybody was invited, not a man or woman 
slighted, 
And we sure corralled a herd of coarse and fine. 



EL DORADO "29" 69 

Like a cow turned loose in clover, it was me felt 
good all over 
When I met the bunch that sold me "Twenty- 
nine." 



We had bands of music, dancing, flowers, with 
grub and booze the best, 
Bet there wasn't any good thing but was there. 
The ball took in at ten o'clock, held on till noon 
next day, 
When we turned the last bunch out — in bad 
repair. 



When we'd sorta got our bearings, after living 
there two weeks, 
I took a trip down San Diego way, 
To look some cattle over, see a ranch or mebby 
two: 
1 was sizing up investments that would pay. 



When I got back to Frisco that grand house was 
shut up tight, 
And I didn't seem to see no signs of life, 



70 EL DORADO "29" 

I just naturally wondered what had happened in 
that week, 
And when and where I'd meet up with my wife? 

Then I hunted up a neighbor and I heerd a tale 

that sure, 

For the moment almost took away my breath, 

Liz had skipped to Arizona with a young and 

handsome "sport/' 

And her note said — was "His truly until death." 

Then misfortunes came in bunches, as you know 
they mostly do, 
I got badly squeezed in stocks and mines and 
land, 
Lizzie gone, I steady blundered, and I know the 
boys all wondered 
To see a once-was hustler, out of sand. 

Yes, my fortune fairly melted, all the gold I'd 
toiled to win 
Seemed to slip away like mist before the sun. 
My debts was like a mountain, and the round- 
up and accountin' 
Left "your Uncle" jest as poor as he begun. 



EL DORADO "29" 71 

From the rock where wed been sitting, "Hunch" 
arose, picked up his pail, <f 
While I tried my best to slip in^ his hand 
A b t it of folded paper, of a color chiefly green, 
But he turned and said, I'd have you under- 
stand 

M 

That you're welcome to my story, if you think 
it worth your time, 
And then added with a serio-comic air: 
I'll gladly burn your weeds up, yes, smoke 
every blessed one, 
But don't try to V a poor ^-millionaire. 



But I really must be going for some grub and 
then a sleep, 
For even night-shift workers snooze, and 
munch. 
He reached me out a hand of horn, and smiling 
said, Good-bye! 
Then a dingy open doorway swallowed 
" Hunch I " 



A Tub Tragedy. 



Mary Ellen Magee had just turned forty-three, 
When she drifted to Bennett from "Skag," 
Where she'd buried her husband, blown up in a 




en himself was lit up with a jag. 



The widow was pretty, for time had been kind 
To a skin like a Kerry cow's milk, 

Laughing eyes of deep brown, and she wore for a 
crown, 
In a snood, troubled waters of silk. 



Her hair was entrancing, in red golden waves,- 
was it brown? — 
One might possibly err ? 
Like a painting by Titian, immortal Venetian,- 
'twas a chestnut 
Just dropped from its burr. 
(72) 



A TUB TRAGEDY 



73 




"When she drifted to Bennett from 'Skag 

'Twas that spring in the Nineties when Bennett 
just boiled 

With an army gone crazy for gold, 
When labor, clothes, victuals, well any old thing, 

Need only be seen, to be sold. 

'Twas a poor little shack with its walls of spruce 
slabs, 

And with gaps in its rough puncheon floor, 
And it stood at the mouth of a deep little gulch, 

But a rod from the shingle-strewn shore. 



The roof overhead was of cloth badly sagged, 
And for light there were eight grimy panes, 



74 A TUB TRAGEDY 

And a door weather-warped feebly fought with 
the winds, 
As that poor canvas roof with the rains. 



At the back, with a roofing of flattened oil tins, 
And upheld by two small cedar trees, 

Was a rickety porch, where when business was 
slack 
Mary Ellen might counterfeit ease. 



It was here at the first, after toiling for hours, 
When the night was as black as a sloe, 

That she'd sit and look out on Lake Bennett's 
broad face, 
All aflush with the Northern Lights glow. 



There she'd sit — and she'd gaze, in those velvety 
nights, 
On those armies of glittering stars, 
From her throne of a rough wooden box, up on 
end, 
With its legend, "OLEIN,— 50 BARS." 



A TUB TRAGEDY 



75 



In that poor little shelter, when weary and worn, 
She would flee to the wreck of a chair, 

From the smothering reek of the suds, and hot 
irons, 
And she'd drink of that sweet mountain air. 




"An army gone crazy for gold' 



There were times when a soap-wrinkled hand 
would apply 
To the stumpy "dudeen" a live coal, 
And the sharp pungent incense of "Shag" floated 
up, 
With its powers to speak peace to a soul — 



76 A TUB TRAGEDY 

As the wreaths floated up from that murmuring 
bowl, 
And were lost in the darkness of night, 
Twas a swift flying shuttle of dreams Mary 
threw, 
And the fabric she wove, sure was bright. 

Mary rented the shanty and soon had her sign, 
Painted bold, hanging over the door 

By a clean-busted artist, on his uppers, for 
home, 
Sure, she washed his one shirt for the score. 

Then he gave a big shingle a good coat of white, 

And on it, in letters of black, 
Said: Shirts at eight "bits," or with drawers for 
sixteen, 

Strictly cash when you get the clothes back. 

Sure she'd scarce off her bonnet or hung up her 
shawl, 
When a mob toting bundles rushed in, 
Like a herd of wild Injuns they shouted and 
yelled — 
Was the divil himself in them min? 



A TUB TRAGEDY 



77 



! 




"And soon had her sign painted bold " 



In less than ten minutes they dumped on the floor, 
"Pay dirt," that to "wash" meant a week, 

And the most put their money right into her 
hand, 
Leaving Mary too rattled to speak. 



78 A TUB TRAGEDY 

In the coin and the paper she took that first day 
Was a stove, tubs and buckets, and food, 

And the stars still were shining when Mary next 
day 
Started in, heart and soul, to "make good." 



Could any one wonder or should it surprise, 

That over the widow's fair head 
There went never a week but a score came to 
seek, 

And to find that she never would wed. 



By the light of a smoke-crusted lamp overhead, 
With her shapely white arms in the suds, 

Mary Ellen stood rubbing a fortune some day 
From that extra foul mountain of duds. 




Ah no! she'd not marry; in truth she was wed, 
And her husband, that gold-getting thirst 

That had poisoned her patrons, sore tarnished 
the best, 
And had driven the bad to their worst. 



A TUB TRAGEDY 79 

Yes, the fever had seized on her, body and soul, 
As the dollars were washed from her "claim/' 

And she toiled like a galley slave, chained to his 
bench, 
And ere long, day and night were the same. 



She would scarce stop to eat, and she clung to 
her tub, 
Till her arms and her brain could no more. 
Then she'd lie on her pallet and gloat o'er the 

he fE3^ 1 

And the cash it would add to her store. 



She'd a sizable biscuit-tin full up of cash, 

With another not greatly behind, 
But she'd stick to her washing another month yet, 

And then, if she knew her own mind, 



It was up and away to dear Kerry's green hills, 

To her folks in old Nocknagaree, 
And then, "Glory to God," once again on "the 
sod," — 

Sure a quane couldn't happier be. 



80 A TUB TRAGEDY 

There was Maggie her sister, two girls and a boy, 
, Well and wouldn't they jump at the chance 
To open their hearts and their home to her then? 
When they're rich, Ireland's easy for aunts. 



From the roughly trimmed cedars, the posts of 
her porch, 

Like a web spread a network of lines 
To a couple of firs, and beyond to a bunch 

Of convenient, second-growth pines. 



In that web there hung ever a motley array, 
Twas the life and adventures of "Shirt." 

There they flapped in the breeze that swept down 
from the pass, 
When they'd all won their freedom from dirt. 



Shirts a-traveling north were most generally 
good, 

Sound in tail, bosom, buttons, and cuff, 
And for these Mary Ellen got civilized dough, 

And their washing was easy enough. 



A TUB TRAGEDY 81 

But the shirt coming south spread a different 
"tail," 
Quite indifferent even at best, 
For, not to mince matters, 'twas often mere 
tatters, 
'Twould be scorned by a scare-crow well 
dressed. 

J' 

And when those "back-comers," those "quit- 
ters" paid up, 
'Twas in dust, with a spoon, from a poke, 
And many's the small extra pinch Mary .got, 
As the price of a smile and a joke. 



'Twas a congress of tunics from every clime, 
From close-by to remotest Cathay, 

And the grove looked as bright as a Cowes yacht 
bedight 
When "His Nibs" will run down for the day. 



Here's a shirt of pink cambric, still smelling of 
musk, 
With a flower-spray 'broidered in front, 



82 A TUB TRAGEDY 

From the Rue des Beaux Arts, and from Julie's 
fair hands, 
To Alphonse, when he joined the great hunt. 

It elbows the shirt of a hard-headed Scot, 

Somber gray, somewhat faded perchance, 
From the fleece of a smutty-faced Grampian 

Quite a different tog from La France ? 

Next a sweater, — you've seen 'em, dark blue, 
with a Y, 
On some splendid chap bucking the line; 
Without Father's knowledge he'd cut loose from 
college, 
Well, he hadn't yet picked out his mine. 

Three shirts of Giuseppe's, of flame-colored silk — 
He's the Dago that made a big strike, — 

Then a green, with a grand yellow harp on the 
breast, 
Could it have any owner but Mike? 

Six shirts of black cotton next sway in the breeze, 
Large buttons of pearl down the front; 



A TUB TRAGEDY 83 

Then a weather-stained khaki, with fringe on 
its skirt, 
From a camp-boss named Henderson Hunt. 

Then another boy's sweater, a black, somewhat 
dim, 
With a great orange "P" on the breast, 
He too had cut college, sans the Governor's 
knowledge 
And he wasn't cock-sure, for the best. 

Of the coarse wiry wool of the flocks of Bretagne, 
Ashen gray, neatly patched with a sock, 

Hung the tog of a Channel coast sea-faring man, 
'Twas a Gurnsey Isle fisherman's frock. 

Sure she'd shirts of all nations, of every kind, 
Color, texture, weave, trimming, and wear, 

And the winds from the canon or up the blue 
lake 
Never caught Mary's drying lines bare. 

Her dirty dim lamp, with its coating of flies, 
Ever shone through the grime-coated pane, 

As Mary stood washing for ever and aye, 
With a soul fairly famished for gain. 



84 A TUB TRAGEDY 

Her shoulders were bent, and her bright eye 
grown dim, 
But she never recoiled from the lash, 
From the stripes of her taskmasters," Gold Lust" 
md "Greed," 
each welt meant a dollar in cash. 




And somehow old Kerry seemed further away. 
Was its beauty the dream of a girl ? 
fould "Mag" and the "childer" sure welcome 

her back ? 
Could she ever cut loose from this whirl ? 



W. 



Well, she'd work a week longer, and fill up the 
tin, 

Shake the shack, and set out for the East, 
With a draft on the Limerick Bank in her clothes, 

Twould be " 5," then three ciphers at least. 



It was early September, the day was but young, 
And the Lake a blue mirror of glass, 

Giving back to each mountain its quota of green, 
And its snow to the peak in the pass. 



A TUB TRAGEDY 



85 




"And its snow to the peak in the pass" 

Mary's lamp was not burning, no swashing of 
suds, 
And no low crooning song of "the sod," 
And a "chink" who was bringing a roll to be 
washed, 
Thought the stillness remarkably odd. 



He followed the well-beaten path through the 
rocks, 
As it curved to the rear of the shack, 



86 A TUB TRAGEDY 

Saw the lines had their freighting of things out 
to dry, — 
Then his felt-shoes turned thoughtfully back. 

"Ying" crept to the window, breathed hard on 
a pane, 
And with sleeve rubbed a hole in the grime, 
Took one peep, gave a yell fit to waken the 

dead, 
Then he smashed Bennett's record for time. 

A crowd quickly gathered and rushed to the shack, 
Pulled the latch-string, swung open the door, 

And there, with her head on a ten-dollar "loss," 
Mary Ellen lay dead on the floor. 

No green hills of Kerry, no sister with bairns; 

No draft for five thousand, n &mgyjy 'gif 
Mary Ellen had washed herself into her grave. 

Well, her funeral for sure was the best 

That the people of Bennett town ever would see, 
And they tell of its splendor to-day. 

For they gave a Seattle "Director" carl 
And he took her five thousand for pay. 




Jean. 

He sat in the dim little Cafe Rousseau, 
With his pipe and a glass of Vermouth, 

"Twas the painter Lerboulet, a pauper in fame, 
But of wealth in the treasures of youth. 



On the floor of an attic, in Rue du Couronne, 
(Three "Millets" divided the rent), 

Jean had dozens of canvases facing the wall, 
With the proceeds of one nearly spent. 



As he sipped he turned over, and skimmed as 
he turned, 
A "Figaro" spread on his knee. 
When his wandering, aimless, pre-occupied eye 
Caught, "Great news from Les Etats Unis." 
(87) 



88 JEAN 

'Twas a bit from Le Klondike, and Yukon 
Riviere, 
Where the gold lay all over the ground, 
Which thousands and thousands were rushing to 
win, 
And where one lucky Frenchman had found, 



In less than a fortnight, with shovel and pick, 

By himself, in the bed of a stream, 
The fortune Jean Baptiste so frequently won 

And so lavishly spent — in a dream. 

Jean rose from the table like one in a trance, 
Paid his score and strolled into the park, 

And he gave the old woman ten sous for his chair 
When he wandered away in the dark. 



I 



r 



To "Le Circle Artistique" that night he ne'er 
came, 
At his lodgings he hadn't been seen, 
And the knights of the palette and ladies who 
pose 
Sorely missed the all-conquering Jean. 



JEAN 89 

From their music and dancing, chanson and 
gavotte, 
He had fled through the balmy June night, 
By a cheap midnight train, creeping slow through 
Touraine. 
And close crouched by one flickering light 

That wonderful "Figaro" story he read, 
And he read, and then read it again, 

Till each paragraph, syllable, letter in sooth, 
Fairly tatooed itself on his brain. 

In the gray of the dawning, o'er vineyard and 
glebe, 

Over orchard, and grass-land, and corn, 
With two sentinel poplars guarding the door, 

Stood the house where Jean Baptiste was born. 

How well he remembered the path through the 
fields, 
By the moat of the Castle Langeais, 
Where the silver-haired Seigneur, now long in his 
grave, 
From his chair watched the children at play. 



90 JEAN 

Jean quickened his pace as he drew near the house, 
And a sabot's clank fell on his ear, 

And with it the voice that of all upon earth 
Was the one most especially dear. 



With her back to the door of the dark little room, 
Had she heard his quick step? would she turn? 

Jean's mother with sturdy white arms in the air, 
Plied the staff to and fro in the churn. 



A sister looked up, caught his eye, and anon 
The hand with its quick waving beck, 

While two sturdy, velveteen, "only son's" arms 
Found their way 'round his mother's soft neck. 

She turned on the instant. "Mon Dieu! it is 
Jean!" 

Then she swooned in an excess of joy, 
But a fan of Jean's beret, a sip of red wine, 

And a fond arm encircled her boy. 



Across from the stables Jean's father clanked in, 
And he kissed the dear son on each cheek, 



JEAN 91 

Then a simple meal over, the men lit their pipes, 
And 'twas time for Jean Baptiste to speak. 



He read them the "Figaro's" marvelous tale 
Of the gold in that far distant land, 

Where nuggets like pebbles were lying about 
And where every small rivulet's sand 



Held fabulous fortunes awaiting the man 

With that thing which "Les Anglais" call 
"pluck." 

And he ended by saying he'd made up his mind 
To try in Le Klondike his luck. 



If the father would loan him the louis he'd need 
For the journey, his outfit, and clothes, 

He could pay the loan over and over again, 
And indeed it was safe to suppose 

That in such a country just teeming with gold, 
And with capital, courage, and youth, 

At the end of a year he'd be back in Touraine 
With a marvelous fortune forsooth. 



92 JEAN 

They sat in the arbor and talked the thing o'er, 
Weighed its cost and the chance of success. 

And the son, deeply versed in that peasant pere's 
greed, 
Gn its certain large profits laid stress. 

And so it fell out that the same creeping train 
Which brought penniless Jean to Langeais 

Carried back to Paree quite a different man, — 
In a Jean well equipped for the fray. 

For Farmer Lerboulet had toiled all his days 
On the snug little farm at Langeais, 

And was rich, as they estimate wealth in Touraine, 
And in fact was well able to pay 

For Jean's great adventure far over the seas, 
To that land where the gold lay in sight. 

So they kissed him, and blessed him, and waved 
their adieux 
As their idol was lost in the night. 

At "Le Circle Artistique" Jean made quite a stir, 
With his flitting from palette to pick, 



JEAN 9? 

And the girls and their painters all crowded 
around, 
Cheered and wished him a " milliard " and quick. 



But one of the models, the beautiful Claire, 
Through her sobs only longed to be dead, 

But she smiled when her lover, with arm 'round 
her waist, 
Swore he'd bring home a fortune and wed. 



In his "Judgment of Paris," the apple was 
Claire's 
And her beauty at least had been sung 
By those "Judges of Paris" who thought the 
work bad, 
Though it did not deserve to be hung. 



Jean could "parlez" some "Anglais," "com- 
prenez" a lot, 
But the one whose remarks were ne'er vain 
Was his dearest companion, the bright Louis 
d'-or 
From the Banks of the Loire, in Touraine. 



94 JEAN 

On a beautiful morning yet early in June, 
With the larks singing high in the air, 

Jean climbed up the side of a deep-laden " tramp" 
At the little coast town St. Nazaire. 

Jean Baptiste Lerboulet was thirty, was tall, 
Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and when 

The sun and the winds tanned his city-paled cheek 
He had what is called beauty in men. 

But his principal asset, his ''pearl of great price, " 
Was the gift that with life only ends, 

'Twas that rare combination of tongue, brain and 
heart, 
That can capture and colonize friends. 

That small dirty freighter, the " Mermaid, " as soon 
As the last of "belle France" was "hull down," 

Ran into rough weather and a fortnight had 
lapsed 
Ere Jean saw in the sun going down 

Those lofty white clifTs with their canons between, 
Where like bees on great sections of comb 



JEAN 95 

Men cluster, and bee-like the busy wax rich, 
But where drones find no footing or home. 

Then that overland journey, so endless to Jean; 

Would those cities, towns, mountains, lakes, 
plains, 
Forever keep running ahead of his coach? 

Would he never be free from those trains? 

At last in Seattle; was everyone mad? 

Had no one a moment to spare? 
Was its whole population, of every nation, 

Determined to die or "get there"? 

Then a rotten old steamer, where, herded like swine 
Men received for their fabulous fare 

The poorest of food, scarcely shelter at all, — 
But for trifles like these who could care? 

Then after ten horrible days of a voyage, 
With icebergs, boat-groundings, and fog, 

In the darkness an anchor plunged down in the 
bay, 
And they cheered at the bark of a dog. 



g6 



JEAN 




''With icebergs, boat-groundings, and fog 

Yes — Skagway at last. Twas the little new town, 

To the Klondike its easiest door, 
With its tents and rough shanties like mushrooms 
sprung up, 

And its mountains of freight on the shore. 



jean had the good fortune to stumble on friends, 
Two men from Saumur, in Touraine, 

They had been there some days and were just 
starting north 
With a seasoned old miner, a Dane. 



JEAN 



97 



On a low-lying flat, where a bright brawling 
stream 
Found the sea, at the head of a bay, 
Like the gourd of the Prophet sprung up in the 
night, 
Stood the soon-to-be town of Skagway. 




"Its mountains of freight on the shore" 



98 JEAN 

To its shacks, and its shanties, tents, hovels, and 
huts, 
Hasty shelters from weather and wind, 
There was gathered an host with its Babel of 
tongues, 
But with one single object in mind. 

They came from Australia, from Turkey, France, 
Spain, 
From the Cape ; was there yet any land 
That could hold back its people when once they 
had read 
Of the Yukon's auriferous sand? 

"Greed" hung out its banner, "Quick- Wealth" 
beat its drum, 

And recruits by the thousand poured in, 
And the saint for the time, laying virtue aside, 

Swelled the ranks of notorious sin. 

One threw down his hammer, another his pen, 
Another his shuttle, scythe, brush, 

Some e'en fled the pulpit, spurned well-endowed 
chairs, 
For a place in that gold-maddened rush. 




"Our Jean fell in line " 



ioo JEAN 

From a point on the river three miles above 
"Skag," 
In an hour, easy reached in a boat, 
Starts the old Dead-Horse Trail, whence the 
things that avail 
Are broad shoulders, the tump-strap, and 
"tote." 

One midsummer morning our Jean fell in line, 
That incessantly swarmed up the trail, 

Heavy laden with "duffle," tools, clothing, and 
grub, 
Now his peasant-sired sinews avail. 



For he trudged up the narrow rough pass with a 
; song, 

And for mates who lagged back in the rear 
He lightened their luggings, new-heartened the 

//ll faint, 

Hw his "gay Paris chansons" did cheer! 

On the Valley's low ledges the tramping was good, 

And the toters, aye even the lax, 
Made excellent time, — till they came to the place 

That the nerve and the sinews sore tax. 




That loose, rolling stone filled ravine 



io2 JEAN 

Ah! the anguish of toil in the terrible climb 
Up that boulder-strewn, deep-trodden road, 

So narrow, so constantly verging the cliff, 
And that spine-racking sway of the load. 

Those steeps of bare rock, slimy patches of moss, 
And that loose, rolling stone filled ravine, 

Twas a horrible stress on that line, as of ants, 
Ere the White Pass's summit was seen. 

Any sort of an outfit, if worthy the name, 
Meant three trips for the tote of its stuff, 

And those thirteen tough miles to the summit 
for most 
Took the best of a week, "sure enough." 

On the summit, that army, toil-wracked to the 
verge 

Where endurance had drained to its dregs 
The beaker that started o'er-flowing with grit, 

Halts, to rest its brain, body, and legs. 

Like the armies of Israel swarming the heights, 
With the Promised Land spread at their feet, 



JEAN 103 

This army of gold-seekers gaze on a scene 
That is grand, soul-inspiring, and sweet. 

Around them on every hand mountains arise, 
Timber-clad from their base to the peak, 

With crownings of fleecy, perpetual snows, 
And where one may discern an' he seek, 

In the lake's sleeping mirror, outspread at his 
feet, 
Lo! a vision in echo of these, 
Snow mountains, and glaciers, with their gleam 
of green ice, 
O'er the billowing tops of the trees. 

From that hardly won summit, the winding trail 
sinks, 
And in the blue distance afar, 
Miles Canon hath sundered the mountains in 
twain, 
With its gate to the Yukon ajar. 

And here for that army of toilers there ends 
Those body and soul-racking totes 



[04 



JEAN 



Hereafter no knapsack, no tump-strap on brow r 
Hence they seek El Dorado in boats. 




"7« the lake's sleeping mirror" 

Jean bought him a boat at a fabulous price, 

For that roughly built, broad-beamed batteau 

Cost him sixty gold Louis, and the most thought 
him wise 
As the market for such was not slow. 

Did he know any boating? could he handle an oar 
Or a paddle, a pick-pole, or sweep? 



JEAN 105 

Could he hold a boat steady and true on her 
course, 
When like furies the hissing waves leap? 



As a boy he'd been out with his Uncle Raoul, 
He who fished from St. Pol, Finisterre, 

Often handled the lugger, or helped with the 
trawls, 
And he had no acquaintance named Fear. 



Jean shipped tools and duffle with consummate 
care, 

And when that bestowment was done, 
No other Cheechako was better equipped 

For that terribly perilous run 



w 



Than was light-hearted, broad-shouldered Jean 
Lerboulet, 
As he stood in that much trodden mud, 
Whence the deep laden barges, the lighters and 
scows, 
Cautious crept to the verge of the flood. 



io6 JEAN 

At first over water as oily and smooth 
As a midsummer, sun- basking pond, 

Whereon, to the breast of the twittering swift, 
Great, slow-spreading circles respond. 

Then the broad current narrows, grows rapidly 
less, 
And small whirling eddies appear, 
And the water, grown black, has an ominous 
heave 
And a low, sullen roar greets the ear. 

Now a turn to the left through the narrowing gate, 
'Twixt a canon's walls towering high, 

With turrets sparse-crested with dwindling pines, 
And above them a glimpse of blue sky. 

Then, pent 'twixt those basaltic barriers grim, 
With its waves leaping high in the air, 

Like Orestes pursued by the Furies there sped 
A flood, for the fearless to dare. 

'Spite of eddy, and whirlpool, and billows that 
leaped 



JEAN 107 

From the rocks in the tideway at least 
A fathom in height, in a deluge of spray, 
And with thunderous roar never ceased, 

The Rapids of White Horse sore tempted the man, 
Trail-weary and pack-worn, to breast 

Its dangers that dally with death in a mile, 
But that saves a week's toting at best. 

Jean bided his time, and anon in his turn 
Pushed the deep-laden scow to the fore, 

And then leaned on a paddle and listened intent 
To some friends who had been there before, 

Who had many times baffled that fierce torrent's 
rage, 
And who knew its each perilous pitch, 
And had seen brave Cheechakos swept instant 
to death 
In the maw of that terrible ditch. 

"Yaller Charley, " aTlinkit — for an Indian good, 
But with one of those totem-pole faces, 

With its deeply carved welcome a sudden knife 
Gave to the fifth in a family of " aces " ! 



io8 JEAN 

^Vhate'er his shortcomings, that Tlinkit, Jean's 
friend, 
With an oar, in the stern, at his post, 
Was a class by himself for that White Horse 
Pass run. 
No! there wasn't his like on the coast. 



He tried in his lingo to coach Lerboulet, 
Gave him points how to win through the flood, 

And to piece out his Indian-patter he drew 
A crude chart with a stick, in the mud. 



Jean's boat was but small, so his friends urged in 
vain, 

That he give "Tlinkit Charley" an oar. 
He could easily manage his boat all alone, 

And so save twenty bright louis-d'or. 




So, stripped to the sleeveless red shirt that he 
wore 
When he pulled a stout oar on the Seine, 
Jean Baptiste Lerboulet launched forth, waved 
adieux, 
And was off — -that great fortune to gain. 




'One of those totem-pole faces 



no JEAN 

At the first he moved slowly — so slowly, forsooth, 
That his eye even noted the ferns 

That grew in the drip of those black, sweating 
cliffs; 
But ere long, 'round the sharpest of turns, 

His boat gave a leap like a hare from her form, 
When she catches the bay of the hound. 

And those instant terse sinews respond to his call, 
And those arms, once so white, now so browned, 

Like a bracing of steel bind the oar to its notch, 

As he rides on the top of the comb 
In a deafening roar, and a deluge of spray 

From the rocks, rising black through the foam. 

The pace was terrific; had the scow taken wing? 

'Twas delirious, Jean shouted and sang, 
And above the black canon's deep, thunderous 
boom, 

Like a trumpet, the Marseillaise rang. 

Already the canon's mouth loomed straight 
ahead, 



JEAN in 

With a stretch of wild water between, 
But whose ravening waves, and the current's 
mad sweep, 
Could not daunt our all-conquering Jean. 




'The black canon's deep thunderous boom ' 



ii2 JEAN 

When, alas ! with the confidence born of escapes, 
And regarding himself as immune, 

Jean slackens his grip on the oar, the least bit, 
When, considerably sooner than soon, 



The bow swerved a trifle, then broadside the 
stream, 

Dashed quite uncontrolled on a rock, 
Was riven throughout from the stem to the stern, 

While its cargo flew out with the shock. 



Grub, duffle, and clothing, tools, blankets and 
tent, 

All those hard-earned French louis had bought, 
Were lost in a moment, and Jean Lerboulet 

For his life in those seething waves fought. 



Jean swam like a duck, so a few lusty strokes 

Brought him safe to the canon's bleak shore. 
Thence he easily climbed up its face of rough 
rock, 
Sunned his clothes, and sat thinking things 
o'er. 



JEAN 



ii3 




"With a stretch of wild water between " 

His total possessions were easily summed, 
A shirt, khaki trousers, feet bare, 

The better to steady himself in the boat, 
So the fisher-folk sailed from Nazaire. 



In a belt 'round his waist, what was left of his 
gold, 

Round his neck on its bright little chain, 
The beautiful face of the raven-haired Claire. 

Would she pose for him ever again? 



ii4 JEAN 

But Jean's greatest possession no torrent could 
drown, 
Twas by far the best thing in his kit, 
'Twas that steadfast, unshrinking, determinate 
will 
That his friends in Alaska called "grit." 

Three fortnights had lapsed since his outfit 
was joined 

To a luckless great number before, 
When again, by a somewhat less deep-laden scow, 

At the head of the pass on the shore 



Jean Baptiste stood waiting his turn to embark, 
And surrounded by friends who protest 

He steadfast refused many proffers of help, 
He could handle his boat with the best. 

He had mastered the Rapids of White Horse in 
sooth, 
Knew their rocks, eddies, cross-currents, each, 
And he harbored no doubt that this time he'd 
win out, 
And could land every ounce on the beach. 



JEAN 115 

And again hands are shaken, hats waved once 
again, 

With a loud, cheery, answering shout 
Lerboulet swings free, disappears 'round the bend, 

And once more for the Yukon sets out. 



He lay on his back, tightly wedged in the cleft 
Of a low shelving rock by the shore, 

With its jagged points tearing a tissue of foam, 
Like the fangs of some terrible boar. 



With a water-bleached face, and its tiny blue 
bruise 

O'er the eye, whence forever had fled 
All recking of time, or of creature, or space, 

Jean Baptiste Lerboulet lay dead! 



And around the full throat gleamed a tiny gold 
chain, 

And on that forever stilled breast 
A little gold disc with its image of Claire, 

Claimed the heart of her lover, — at rest. 



n6 JEAN 

And under the low-drooping boughs of a birch, 
Where the mist ever freshens the grass, 

While a priest homeward bound read the prayers 
for the dead, 
At the foot of that mountain-girt pass 

They buried Jean Baptiste, with J. B. L. carved 
By a friend on the roughly hewn cross. 

And a kindly framed letter to Langeais, Tour- 
aine, 
Bore the tale of that only son's loss. 




A Hardware "Hold-up" 

Now Abner Swift was a man of thrift, 

And one might truly say 
That enterprises "swiftly" worked 
seldom "slow" to pay. 




In Skagway Abner kept a store, 
The best of six or seven, 

When that gold fever busted out 
Along in Ninety-seven. 



W 



When everybody just went mad, 
The whole town seemed outfitting, 

And every day a heap of folks 
Up Yukon-way was flitting. 

(117) 



n8 A HARDWARE "HOLD-UP" 

And ere those three score miles were past, 
Oh! how the smartest, — smarted! 

They lugged their stuff up the Dead-Horse Trail, 
No wagons then had started. 




"/» Bennett, by the river 



How bones did ache, and backs most break, 

And spinal columns quiver, 
Ere they'd drop their duffle and weary selves 

In Bennett, by the river. 



A HARDWARE "HOLD-UP" 



119 



There they built them boats, and once safe past 

One terribly perilous mile, 
O'er the Yukon's flood for weeks could sail, 

To bask in Fortune's smile. 

""Swift" hadn't a drop of Jason's blood, 

He never felt " Argonaut-y, " 
But his lambs mostly yielded "a golden fleece, " 

As they often "swiftly" thought, — eh? 






There they built them boats 



120 A HARDWARE "HOLD-UP" 

He sold them duffle and grub and tools, 
And he said, without bravado, 

That if he might handle their £., s., d., 
They might keep their El Dorado. 

The thoroughly practical Abner Swift 
Among his facts could number, 

That never a boat had been builded yet 
Without nails, in addition to lumber. 



Fc 



A Cheechako would know, that to build a 
batteau, 
: or that rough Yukon voyage availing, 
Required the stout bracing it only could get 
From a better than usual good nailing. 
^^^^ 

So one morning friend Abner had rolled up a keg, 

In a blanket the better for toting, 
Of extra good ten-penny nails such as used 

By the men who are experts in boating. 

Then he lugged that uncomfortable hundred 
pound keg 
Up the trail that was rough, steep, and narrow, 



A HARDWARE "HOLD-UP" 

Until its each nail was an un-wailed wail, 
And a wrench to his sore spinal marrow. 



But when he reached Bennett and threw down 
his load, 
The "sore bone" gave place to the "funny," 
For the builders of boats gathered swift 'round 
that keg 
Like the flies round a spot of spilled honey. 



Nails! Nails! Give us nails! is the cry that pre- 
vails, 

And in less than the time for its telling, 
At "two-bits" the nail, came an end to the sale, 

There was naught but the keg left for selling. 




In an hundred pound ten-penny keg of wire 

By count there are seventy hundred, 
So in rating that deal as a neat stroke of trade, 
Few would think Brother Swift to have blun- 
dered. 



122 A HARDWARE "HOLD-UP" 

Abner rested a day, then home wended his way, 
And with seventeen hundred and fifty, 

As his earnings from sales of one keg of wire 
nails, 
Has e'er since been regarded as thrifty. 




Finis 



Glossary 

Cached: Placed in a cache, an underground 
hiding-place, sometimes under a cairn or pile of 
stones. Bulky articles of small value are often 
cached by suspending them between two trees 
on a platform or frame-work. 

Cheechako: In the Siwash, Chilkat, Tlinkit, 
Puyallup and other Indian dialects, the equivalent 
of Stranger, Newcomer, " Tenderfoot." 

Coulee: A dry ravine or gulch, often with a 
channel worn by spring floods resulting from 
the melting snows on near-by mountains. 

Greaser: A lower class Mexican, especially a 
vaquero or "cow-puncher." 

Grub-stake: An arrangement by which a 
storekeeper or other capitalist furnished an outfit 
of tools, food, clothing, etc., to a miner to be 
paid for by a certain percentage of gold should 
he make a strike. 

Hard-pan: The underlying stratum below 
which gold is never found — also "bed-rock," 
rock bottom, etc. 

(123) 



i2 4 GLOSSARY 

Huskie: Any kind of dog driven in a sledge 
team. 

Malamute : A specially fine breed of sledge 
dogs with a strong infusion of timber-wolf 
blood, large, powerful, and exceptionally fierce; 
they usually have soft fur-like coats. 

Poke: The small sausage shaped-bags, usually 
of soft-tanned buckskin, universally used to carry 
gold-dust, and in the smaller sizes serving as 
purses. 

Sour-dough: When making bread or biscuit 
the experienced prospector, hunter, miner or 
lumberman leaves in the bottom of the little 
wooden pail used to mix his dough, a small por- 
tion of the last mixing to serve as a leaven for the 
new batch — hence "sour-dough" is the equiva- 
lent of old-timer, veteran, etc. 

Tump-strap: A long wide strap to which the 
pack or bundle is fastened and which sustains its 
load by being passed around the forehead of the 
carrier who, when weary, sometimes shortens the 
strap and lets it drop across his (or her) breast. 
The use of a "tump-strap" leaves both hands 
free, which in rough country or thick woodlands 
is a distinct advantage. 



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